But if you were planning on breaking into an expensive house during early-morning hours when the family was asleep, wouldn’t your first assumption be that there was an alarm and it was set? I noticed in articles I scanned while parked at the gun store that Clarence Jordan was out the Saturday afternoon of January 5, volunteering at a local men’s emergency shelter, and returned home around seven-thirty that evening. No mention was made of the alarm and why he didn’t bother to set it when he came in for the night, but it doesn’t appear he did. The system couldn’t have been armed when the break-in occurred at some point after midnight the following morning.
The killer—supposedly Lola Daggette—smashed the glass out of the first-story kitchen door, reached inside, flipped open the lock, and walked in. Assuming the alarm system didn’t have glass-break or motion sensors, it would have had contacts, and even if the perpetrator knew the code, the instant the door was opened, the chime would have sounded, beeping or chirping until the system was disabled. It’s hard to imagine four people would sleep through that. Maybe Jaime has the answer. Maybe Lola Daggette has told her what really happened and I’m about to find out why I’m here and what I have to do with it.
I stand on the sidewalk in darkness that is uneven in the glow of tall iron lamps, and I try my lawyer, Leonard Brazzo. He is fond of steak houses, and when he answers his cell phone he tells me he’s at the Palm and it’s mobbed.
“Let me step outside,” his voice sounds in my wireless earpiece. “Okay, better,” he adds, and I hear cars honking. “How did it go? How was she?” He means Kathleen Lawler.
“She mentioned something about letters Jack wrote to her,” I reply. “I don’t recall any letters being found, and I didn’t see such a thing when I was looking through his personal effects at his house in Salem. But it’s possible no one mentioned letters to me,” I say, as I stare at Jaime Berger’s white-brick building across the street, eight stories, with large sashed windows.
He resented the fucking hell out of you.
“Got no idea,” Leonard replies. “But why would Jack have letters he wrote to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Unless she returned them to him at some point? Sorry about the wind. Hope you can hear.”
“I’m just telling you what she said.”
“The FBI,” he says. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they got a court order to search her cell or wherever she might have personal belongings stored, looking for letters or any other type of communication to or from or about Jack Fielding or Dawn Kincaid.”
“And we wouldn’t necessarily know about that,” I reply.
“No. The police, DOJ, wouldn’t be obliged to share any letters with us. Saying they exist.”
Of course they wouldn’t be obliged to share. I’m not the one on trial for murder or attempted murder, and that’s the aggravating irony. During the discovery phase, Dawn Kincaid and her legal team have a right to all evidence the prosecution has obtained, including any mocking letters Jack might have written to Kathleen Lawler about me. But I wouldn’t be told about them or learn of their content until they’re produced in court and used against me. Victims have no rights while they’re being victimized and few rights during the slow, tedious grind of the criminal justice process. The injuries don’t heal but continue to be inflicted, by lawyers, by the media, by jurors, by witnesses who testify that someone like me had it coming or caused it.
He used to say you have no idea how hard you are on people … a bitch who needed to be fucked …
“Are you worried about what the letters might say?” Leonard is asking me.
“They don’t appear to paint me favorably, if what I’ve been told is true. That will be helpful to her.”
It will be helpful to Dawn Kincaid, I’m indicating without saying her name out loud, as I stand on a sidewalk in the dark, people and cars going by, headlights hurting my eyes. The more I’m disparaged, the less credible I become and the less sympathy jurors will have for me.
“Let’s deal with any letters if they present themselves.” Leonard says not to get worked up about something that hasn’t happened.
“I also was curious if Jaime Berger might have been in touch with you,” I get to that point.
“The prosecutor?”
“The very same.”
“No, she hasn’t been in touch. Why would she?”
“Curtis Roberts”—the lawyer Tara Grimm mentioned to me— “what can you tell me about him?”
“He’s a volunteer lawyer with the Georgia Innocence Project, works with a firm in Atlanta.”
“So he’s representing Kathleen Lawler pro bono.”
“Apparently.”
“Why would the Innocence Project be interested in her? Is there a legitimate question about her conviction for DUI manslaughter?” I ask.
“I just know he called on her behalf.”
I decide to ask nothing further as I think about Kathleen Lawler’s note and her instructions for me to find a pay phone. Why?If that was Jaime’s direction, then it suggests she might be concerned about my talking on my cell phone. I tell Leonard Brazzo I’ll go into more detail later and to enjoy his dinner. I end the call and cross the street to face whatever I’m about to face. I wonder which windows are Jaime’s and if she is watching for me and what it must be like to stare out at a world that no longer includes Lucy. I wouldn’t want to miss my niece. I wouldn’t want the misery of knowing her and then not having her anymore.
The building isn’t full-service, not even a doorman, and I push the intercom button for apartment 8SE and the electronic lock buzzes loudly and clicks free, as if the person letting me in knows who I am without asking. For the second time this day I scan for surveillance cameras, spotting one in a white metal casing that blends with the white bricks in a corner over the door. It occurs to me that if Jaime sees me in a monitor, then it’s likely the closed-circuit camera was installed by her and includes infrared capabilities, so it will work in the dark.
I see no indication that the building itself has security, nothing but electronic locks and an intercom system, and my curiosity builds. Savannah isn’t merely a getaway—not if Jaime has gone to the trouble to install an advanced security system. As I’m opening the door I sense something behind me, and I turn around, startled, as a person wearing a flashing helmet climbs off a bicycle and leans it against a lamppost at the end of the walkway, near the street.
“Jaime Berger?” asks this person, a woman, I realize, and she takes off her backpack and opens it, pulling out a large white bag.
“That’s not me,” I reply, as she walks toward me carrying a take-out bag with the name of a restaurant on it.
She presses the buzzer and announces into the intercom, “Delivery for Jaime Berger.”
As I hold the door open, I mention to her, “That’s all right. I’m going up. I can take it. How much?”
“Two tekka maki, two unagi maki, two California maki, two seaweed salads. Already on her credit card.” She hands me the bag, and I give her a ten-dollar tip. “Her usual Thursday delivery. Have a nice night.”
I shut the door behind me and take the elevator to the top floor, where I follow an empty carpeted hallway to a unit in the southeast corner. Ringing the bell, I look up into the lens of another camera as the heavy oak door opens, and anything I might have said is eclipsed by my astonishment.
“Doc,” Pete Marino says. “Don’t be pissed.”
8
He invites me in as if it’s his apartment, and the seriousness of his eyes behind his unstylish wire-rim glasses and the hard set of his mouth completely unnerve me at first.
“Jaime should be back any minute.” He shuts the door.
My shocked response just as suddenly turns to anger as I take him in from the top of his shiny shaved head and big weathered face to the rubber-soled canvas shoes he wears with no socks. I note his Hawaiian shirt and the drape of it over shoulders that seem more massive and a belly that seems flatter than I re
member. Baggy green fishing shorts with cargo pockets hang low on his hips, and he’s darkly tanned except for under his chin, where the sun has spared him. He’s been out in a boat or on a beach, out somewhere in the summer weather, his skin bronzed with a ruddy hue. Even his bare pate and the tops of his ears are the color of cognac, but he is pale around his eyes. He’s been wearing sunglasses and no cap, and I envision the white cargo van and the charter-boat brochures in the glove box. I think of the fast-food napkins.
Marino craves Bojangles’ and Popeyes fried chicken and biscuits, and often complains that fried food isn’t a “food group” in New England like it is in the South. There were the comments he made not long ago about preowned gas-guzzling trucks and boats selling for a song, and how much he misses warm weather, and I recall being somewhat bothered by his last-minute notice when he stopped by my office earlier this month. He said he’d been offered an opportunity for some great vacation package. He wanted to go fishing, and his calendar was clear. His last day on duty for the CFC was June 15.
Marino vanished in the middle of this month, and other things happened almost simultaneously. Kathleen Lawler’s e-mails to me stopped. She was transferred to Bravo Pod. Suddenly she wanted me to visit the GPFW, to talk to me about Jack Fielding. Leonard Brazzo thought it was a good idea for me to agree, and then I discovered Jaime Berger is here. Now that I have the luxury of looking back, it’s plain what occurred. Marino lied to me.
“She’s picking up dinner,” he says, taking the bag of take-out sushi from me. “Real food. I don’t eat fish bait.”
I notice a desk, a small table, and two chairs arranged near the far wall, with two laptops and a printer, and books and legal pads, and on the floor stacks of expansion file folders.
“The three of us talking in a restaurant isn’t exactly a good idea,” he adds, setting the take-out bag on the kitchen counter.
“I wouldn’t know if it’s a good idea or not, since I have no idea why you’re here. Or, more to the point, why I am,” I reply.
“You want something to drink?”
“Not now.”
I move past the closed-circuit monitor mounted on the wall, past a coat rack, and for an instant I smell cigarettes.
“I don’t blame you for wondering what the hell,” Marino says, and paper rattles as he opens the bag. “I probably should stick this in the fridge. Don’t be pissed, Doc….”
“Don’t tell me what to be. Are you smoking again?”
“Hell, no.”
“I smell cigarettes. Someone was smoking in the rental van I didn’t reserve, which also stinks like dead fish and stale fast food and has suspicious brochures in the glove box. I hope you’re not smoking again, for God’s sake.”
“No way I’d get hooked on cigarettes after all I went through to quit.”
“Who is Captain Link Michaels?” I refer to one of the brochures in the glove box. “Year-round fishing with Captain Link Michaels,”I quote.
“A charter boat out of Beaufort. A nice guy. Been out with him a few times.”
“You weren’t wearing a cap, probably not sunblock, either. What about skin cancer?”
“I don’t have it anymore.” He self-consciously touches the top of his ruddy bald head where he had several basal cell carcinomas removed some months ago.
“Just because spots have been removed doesn’t mean you don’t wear sunblock. You should always wear a hat.”
“Blew off when we had the boat full throttle. I got a little burned.” He touches the top of his head again.
“I guess we don’t need to run the plate of that van I’ve been driving today. I guess we know it won’t come back to Lowcountry Concierge Connection,” I then say. “Who was smoking in it, if not you?”
“You weren’t followed here, that’s what matters,” he says. “No one was going to follow you in the van. I forgot to clean out the glove box. Should have known you’d look.”
“The kid who dropped it off to me, who was that? Because I don’t believe he really works for some VIP rental-car company called Low-country Concierge Connection. Is that your rental van, and you got some charter-boat captain’s kid to drop it off to me?”
“It’s not a rental,” Marino says.
“Well, I guess I know why Bryce hasn’t returned my phone calls today. I have a feeling he got influenced, not that it hasn’t happened before when you sneak around behind my back and get him to cooperate by telling him you have my best interests in mind. Did you instruct him to cancel my hotel room, too?”
“It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s turned out okay.”
“Good God, Marino,” I mutter. “Why would you have Bryce cancel my room? What the hell is the matter with you? What if they hadn’t had another room available?”
“I knew they would.”
“I could have been killed in that damn van. It’s not drivable.”
“It was fine the other day.” He frowns. “What was it doing? I wouldn’t put you in something that’s not safe. And I would have known if you broke down.”
“ Not safeis an understatement,” I reply. “Speeds up, slows down, lurching all over the road as if it’s having a grand mal seizure.”
“We had a lot of rain last night, a huge storm in South Carolina, even worse than here. It rained like hell, and it was sitting out. It needs a new hood seal.”
“South Carolina?”
“Maybe the spark plugs got wet. Then maybe they got even more wet when you had it parked out there at the prison, and maybe Joey hit potholes or something and the tires are out of alignment. A nice kid but dumb as a box of hair. He should have called me if it was driving like shit. Well, I’m sorry about that. Yeah, I got a little place I just started renting. In Charleston, a condo near the aquarium, with a pier and boat slips, an easy drive or motorcycle ride from here. I was going to tell you about it, but things have happened.”
I look around and try to make sense of what things Marino might mean. What has happened? What on earth?
“I had to make sure you weren’t followed, Doc,” he then says. “Let’s be honest, Benton knows your plans and has your itinerary because Bryce copies him on the e-mails. They’re on the CFC computer.”
What he’s saying is the rental car Bryce reserved for me is on my itinerary but a malfunctioning cargo van with a bad hood seal wouldn’t be, and my room at the Hyatt is moot because it was canceled. But I’m not sure what Marino is implying about Benton.
“Put it this way,” Marino says, “there’s a Toyota Camry sitting in the lot at Lowcountry Concierge Connection with the name Dr. Kay Scarpetta on it. If anybody was hanging around, waiting for you to get in it because maybe they got access to your itinerary, your e-mails, or found out your schedule some other way, you would have been a no-show. And if they called your hotel, they would have found out you’d canceled your room because you missed your connection in Atlanta.”
“Why would Benton have me followed?”
“Maybe he wouldn’t. But maybe someone would see the itinerary that went from your e-mail to his. Maybe he knows the possibility or likelihood of that happening, and that’s why he didn’t want you coming down here.”
“How do you know he didn’t want me coming down here?”
“Because he wouldn’t.”
I don’t reply or look Marino in the eye. Instead I look around. I take in the details of Jaime’s charming loft of exposed old brick, pine floors, and high white plaster ceilings with rough oak beams, very much to my liking but definitely not to hers. The living area, simply furnished with a leather couch, a matching armchair, and a slate coffee table, flows into a large kitchen with a stone peninsula and the stainless-steel appliances of an industrious cook, which Berger most decidedly isn’t.
There is no art, and I happen to know that she is a collector. I see no evidence of anything personal beyond what’s on the desk and floor against the far wall under a big window filled with the night, the moon distant now, small and bone-white. I don’t see any
furniture or rugs that might be hers, and I know her taste. Contemporary and minimalist, predominantly high-end Italian and Scandinavian, a lot of light woods, such as maple and birch. Jaime’s taste is uncomplicated because her life is its antithesis, and I’m reminded of how much she disliked Lucy’s loft in Greenwich Village, a fabulous building that once was a candle factory. I remember being offended when Jaime used to refer to it as “Lucy’s drafty old barn.”
“She’s renting this,” I say to Marino. “Why?” I sit on the brown leather couch that is a reproduction, not at all Jaime’s style. “And how do you fit into the equation? How do I fit into it? Why are you convinced someone would follow me, given the chance? You could have called me if you were so worried. What is it? Are you thinking of changing jobs? Or have you gone back to work for Jaime and forgot to let me know.”
“I’m not exactly changing jobs, Doc.”
“Not exactly? Well, she’s pulled you into something. You should know that about her by now.”
Jaime Berger is calculating, almost frighteningly so, and Marino is no match for her. He wasn’t when he was an investigator with NYPD and was assigned to her office, and he’s no match for her now and never will be. Whatever reason she’s given him for his being here and maneuvering me into what feels like nothing less than a calculated machination, it isn’t the whole truth or even close.
Red Mist Page 8
